


One Thing Leads to Another

by frankenbolt



Category: The New Statesman (TV 1987), The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: 1980s, British Politics, Hate Sex, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, crack ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24782836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenbolt/pseuds/frankenbolt
Summary: Opposing political ideologies can lead to perfectly symmetrical hatred.But narcissism can lead to confusing hate filled actions.
Relationships: Rick (Young Ones)/Alan B'stard
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. Do what they say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scumbaganarchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumbaganarchy/gifts).



> Based on a prompt by [scumbaganarchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumbaganarchy/pseuds/scumbaganarchy) which I honestly never expected to grow into a monster like this...also I've never done a hate ship before so...there's that.
> 
> Honestly. It's crack, don't take it too seriously.

Rick is lagging behind the rest of his class. It’s June 1978, and the future anarchist is on a school trip to Westminster with his O Level British Politics class.

Not that any of them want Rick “Smelly Pants, Pimple Face” Pratt in their tour group. They’d argued fiercely over which of the two groups of 10 would be stuck with the most unpopular boy in all of St Cant’s Public School. Rick had walked in mid debate, unaware he was the subject of their discussion and enthusiastically cheered on for both sides. 

The losing side told Rick in no uncertain terms, should he embarrass them on this school trip (especially as many of their grandfathers were ministers themselves) that Rick would be walking back. 

He’d been banned from asking any “subversive” questions, banned from offering opinions, banned from volunteering for any activities- basically he’d been gagged. Normally, Rick would have protested...but it was an awfully long walk back to St Cant’s from London. And he didn’t want to rock the boat...well. Coach, too much. He really didn’t want to upset his many “great school-chums” too much.

However by around 11am, Rick found himself extremely frustrated. He’d been pushed to the back of the group, glared at, shouted at, and teased mercilessly about his long hair- and then when the Teacher was done, the other boys took their own boredom out on him too.

“Facists.” The 15 year old kicked at the tiles and chanced a look around. The group was listening to the tour guide animatedly glorifying the crimes of the British Government and praising the recently voted in Conservatives over Labour. Rick could feel his face screwing up with disgust and almost cleared his throat to inject with the self-righteous, indignated cry he was quickly becoming known for-

“Oh~ Mr B’stard!”

A quiet feminine moan of approval drifted out from a mostly hidden alcove to his left. Rick found his face turning red under his latest spotty outbreak. The rest of his classmates had apparently been listening too intently to the tour guide. The quiet rustling of clothing and gentle rasp of breathing was lost on their ears, but Rick found his ears straining for more. From the angle he was standing, he could just about see a man’s back, the crisp expensive suit jacket thankfully (unfortunately? Rick gulped and gripped at the clipboard and his notes fearfully at this confusing flurry of thoughts) concealing much of the action. But he could just about also see long feminine legs in stockings and heels just peeking out from behind the man’s form and the statue of some long dead politician.

Grimacing, a furious dispute warred inside Rick’s head. It went something like:

“Oo-er, that’s a bit- In public? GOSH-”

“-Conservative Sexist Pig!-”

“Nnrghh, her stockings!!-”

“-I bet that poor woman works for him-”

“-he’ssobroadshoulderedohmygosh-”

“-and he just forced himself on her-”

“-and and they just do...do IT all over parliament-”

“-disGUSTing behaviour, and he just gets to-”

“-ohmygosh WHAT if on his desk!!!-”

Suffice to say there was a lot going through the would-be teenage anarchist’s head and he soon found himself alone in the long hallway The tour group had walked off without him as he internally tried to decide if he was turned on or outraged that this was happening in the very place that bloody laws were passed.

Which is how Alan found the teenager, moments later when he and the woman emerged from the alcove. Literally moments. The quickness of the turnaround can not be understated. Sneezes have lasted longer.

It’s June 1978 and the future “Biggest Majority in the House of Commons” MP of  Haltemprice is a junior Barrister and is having a pretty great day all things considered. Many of his fellow graduates are busy beavering around doing the grunt work of their elder conservatives. Every time he thinks of them pouring over big stuffy books and pulling feverish all nighters, Alan has to stifle the huge smirk of malicious glee that comes from having pretty little first year law students do everything for him.

The latest in a long string of which is currently straightening her hair bun and walking purposefully off around the corner, a thin look of disappointment and frustration on her face (she herself is internally debating an early lunch and a quick dash to the ladies so she can at least get back to work). Alan pays her and the rest of the world no mind, busily pushing coiffed blonde curls back into place and pulling his flies up.

He starts when he finds some snot-nosed brat standing almost directly in front of him. Narrowing, Alan’s eyes sweep up and down the unimpressive form of his teen voyeur.

Public school uniform. Parents must be well off. Longer hair framing a thin and acne-rich face. The hair length, the one small non-regulation button on his lapel marks him as one of those would be liberal leaning bleeding hearts. The way his trousers are at least an inch above his once polished school shoes paints him as painfully uncool. 

It’s the pained look on the teenager’s face that immediately puts Alan’s teeth on edge. If he’d found a pair of attractive adults having sex when he’d been a teenager, Alan certainly wouldn’t look as if he’d just seen a crime. 

Although, he ponders momentarily, he’d probably be looking to blackmail the adults for all they were worth. Is that what this little cretin is up to? 

Alan gives the boy another scan.

Urgh. Never mind, he looks like he hasn’t got the brains to pull it off.

Still. Better to be safe than sorry.

Alan clears his throat and the boy stumbles backwards, tripping over air in his haste to move away. 

Pathetic.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, boy?” 

The contempt in the man’s voice seemed to bounce right over Rick’s head and continued bouncing down the long and winding halls of Westminster. A perfect storm of indiginantion from being silenced all morning, fury at sexual harassment in the workplace and hormones rose in Rick’s throat and the teenager spat back-

“Y-You’re COMPLETELY disgusting, you know that?”

Raising one perfect eyebrow, Alan leans back on his heels and raises a hand to his chest mockingly. “Me?”

Indignantly sputtering, gesturing around them at the empty hallway. “Uh! I don’t see anyone else here, matey! You bloody consewvatives are all alike, aren’t you? J-j-ust demeaning women however you please! God you’re all just the WORST.”

It really was hideous the way this boy was becoming hysterical, eyes bulging and spittle flying from that insufferable lisp with every inflamed word. Alan knows his type all too well. Hypocritical little fools full of performative petulance. 

A cruel twitch upturned the corners of the junior barristers’ lips. “And, all conservatives are like that, are they?”

Still seething, Rick actually stomped his foot, the sharp tap echoing down the hallway. “Of course they are! You’re all bloody FASCISTS.”

“Including your parents?” 

Rick’s mouth opened and closed silently. 

Alan grinned and strolled off. “Thought so.”


	2. Say what you mean

It’s 1983, and Rick is homeless.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He has a home. But it’s back in Redditch. More precisely, he hasn’t got a penny to his name, and like hell is he going to call up any of his extended family to lend him the cash to get a train ticket home. 

Because he’d need four tickets. And explaining why he’d need four tickets would necessitate a conversation about how he and his flatmates had ended up homeless in the first place.

Perhaps if he commandeered a vehicle…What a great surprise that’d be! He’d be the one to save them all! How utterly brilliant would that be, to have the lads thank him for providing them transportation to salvation! Or. Well. Redditch. 

He’s concocting the beginnings of this plan, sat idly on the pavement outside a corner shop (Mike was distracting the cashier whilst Vyvyan and Neil attempted to nick some essentials...Rick was told to wait outside when he’s roughly kicked in the side by a very expensive shoe.

“What the BLOODY hell--!!”

There’s another sharp kick to his ribs this time, and he curled into a ball to try and protect the more valuable parts of his anatomy. His attacker pressed a heel into the back of his formerly shaven (now studded with itchy and uncomfortable regrowth) neck and the base of his skull with a disgusted scoff. 

“C’mon now, it’s no fun if I can’t do some serious harm to you, you know? Now be a good boy and turn over.”

Rick whimpered pathetically and tucked his arm more firmly over his head, unmoving. “Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction you FACIST.”

Alan paused mid run up to plant a particularly nasty kick to this filthy street urchin’s backside when that last word reverberated around in his subconscious. Slowly lowering his foot, Alan scoffed and pulled sharply on his thick leather gloves, smoothing out non-existent creases in the designer trench coat. 

It’s 1983 and Alan is publicly courting Sarah Gidleigh-Park. Not that it necessarily matters. Alan is far more invested in working with his under the table business partner Norman to form powerful alliances and growing his portfolio whilst occasionally making the odd appearance in court, when his schedule aligns with his “career” correctly.

“Your parents kick you out then, hmm?” Alan spits down at the still cowering boy in the gutter. “I would have done the same if I’d sired a nasty little gob like you.”

Rick stopped shivering when he heard that. The sharp reminder of his parents being gone and, more distressingly, that they’d be ashamed of him snapped something. Careful denial and suppression of grief was all that was keeping the anarchist together. Through rapidly ushering tears he peers up from under his arm to see...him. 

From the polished brogues to that stylishly tousled mop of blonde curls, there was no mistaking him. The sick wash of nausea against the back of his throat reminded him that no matter how many times he’d replayed their encounter from way back when, and how many times he’d won that encounter in his imagination, the reality was that now Rick was on the ground, at his absolute lowest, at the feet of a man who clearly had everything he would never be.

Alan for his part, didn’t remember every little detail of their encounter. But for some reason the face of this leftie goblin struck him as memorable. If the idea of sharing even a small amount of his growing power with anyone didn’t make him the slightest bit sick, there might even have been potential in this one.

If for no other reason than breaking his ideals and grooming him into an obedient toadie had some attractive element to it.

Oh well. He could always settle for breaking him.

“And I thought you couldn’t be more revolting than you were- you do realise that spots go away with maturity don’t you? A little proper hygiene and laying off the chips...oh what am I saying?” Alan smirked nastily. “Not like you’ve got a proper lavvy out here is it? Or perhaps are you on some hilarious student sit in? Don’t tell me you’re embracing the natural lifestyle? Like some sort of awful hippy?”

Rick felt lightheaded. All of the blood had rushed straight to his head, and suddenly he was 15 again. Feeling the starchy scratch of his school shirt collar scratching at his neck, long hair sticking to his skin at the humiliation of having this older, handsome man make him want to fall through the cracks in the pavement. His mouth moved but no sound emerged, nothing but “I...I--”

“Ah, the well  articulated retorts of the left.” 

“I...I don’t have to tell you anything!” Rick stuttered out. Taking a shaking breath, he stumbled upwards, resting his left arm backwards against the wall to gain his balance as his head swam from hunger and equilibrium. “Why don’t you just, just f-”

“What?” Alan was in Rick’s face faster than the younger man had anticipated, causing the anarchist to hurriedly press himself back against the brick wall of the corner shop. The awning over head casting a shadow over the small alley between the shop and the houses beside it. Night was rapidly approaching and there was no way of telling when his flatmates...room- friends--the only people who possibly even slightly cared about him were coming back out.

The older man wasn’t touching him, but had effectively crowded Rick back enough against the wall that there was a definite threat intended in their position. He felt himself slide down a little against the brick, his legs shaking, so that even though they were more or less the same height, that Alan absolutely had the advantage.

And there he was again. 15 and watching this same man fucking some faceless woman behind a statue in the Houses of Parliment. The lurid display had also, distastefully, featured in some of his more...embarrassing fantasies. Rick had tried desperately to believe it was a natural expression of puberty but he couldn’t shake why he repeatedly wanted those long stocking-ed legs locked around this hateful human being, to be his own.

This close however, Rick could see the cold hate in this man’s (he still didn’t know this bastard’s name!) eyes. That steel shocked Rick into finally making a fist, shaking though it was by his side. He really wanted to punch this man. Frustration built upon having his poorly designed dreams ripped from him (yes okay he failed his exams but--), from having to sleep on the streets (--so if he didn’t know what was he going to do with a sociology degree--), from the increasingly violent fighting between himself and Vyvyan (--how was he supposed to support him in the future, provide if he didn’t have a plan--) to the very real and very unexpected death of his parents (don’t think, don’t think, they can’t be gone, they can’t be--)...

Unaware of the pulse and building emotion in the younger man’s (it didn’t matter he didn’t know his name, why should it?) eyes, Alan figured that from the way he was shaking, that he wasn’t far from shattering him emotionally. Then he could go back to kicking his shit in before he went back to his flat, order a few escorts and get an early night. So he planted one hand by Rick’s head, all the better to establish just how in control of this encounter he was.

“So? Did they kick you out?”

“W-w-w-why do you NEED to know?!” 

“I need to.” Alan said simply. “Information is everything.” 

“But you don’t even KNOW me.” Rick seethed. 

“Of course I do. You’re not unique you know.” Alan’s head tilted to the right, considering the man cowering before him. “You are just one of a thousand just like you. Privileged. White. Well Educated.” His smirk widened when Rick flinched. “Your family probably has connections. You will grow out of this.” His voice sounded almost comforting. “You’ll grow up. You’ll marry well. Some spineless daughter of some colleague. You’ll father 2.5 insipid little spawn and one of them will rebel against their comfortable bubble and continue the spiral. You’ll drink. You’ll drive around your suburban hell and cheat on that ineffectual wife you’ll never love.” Alan’s leather clad hand slid from the wall to tug one of Rick’s plaits, in a move that reeked of scorn. “You just need to go home to Mummy and Daddy and beg their forgiveness.”

A single fat tear rolled through the grime on Rick’s face and he felt like he was drowning. He could see it all so clearly in his minds eye and it terrified him how easy it’d be to slip into that life. Mummy and Daddy had tried so many times to introduce him to some drippy girl or other. And he never felt anything other than a mild curiosity that he suspected was derived of what was expected of him. Daddy had let him choose to do Sociology because he had a friend of a friend in the local (conservative) council he could work for. 

Mummy had even wanted him to live around the corner from them so when “finally started a family” she could help with the grandchildren.

And he’d wanted that. He wanted all of that. It seemed so safe. So protected.

But as Rick got older...he couldn’t see himself at the council denying requests for community funding. He couldn’t see himself as one of the many clawed hands of Thatcher reaching into the pockets of the poor and around the necks of the minorities. 

He couldn’t see a feminine form in the bed next to him in the mornings.

Alan’s voice snapped at him.

“SO. Did. They. Kick. You. Out?”

Rick felt his fist raise of his own accord, and snarl itself around Alan’s tie, yanking himself upwards, and Alan downwards, tilting his head up and smashing his lips against Alan’s.

In a blink of an eye, their positions were switched. Alan found himself crumpled against the hard brick wall, struggling against the clumsy but firm kiss of the younger man. One hand held the side of his face in place, the other pressing his upper arm against the wall. Screwing his eyes shut, Alan tried vainly not to respond, but as soon as the pressure started to lessen, the younger man pulling away, Alan found himself following after him, his free arm no longer trying to pry them apart, but cupping the shorn back of Rick’s head, keeping him from getting away. 

The touch of a hand against the sensitive back of his head had Rick gasp, leaving enough of a gap for Alan to nip at his bottom lip, sharply enough for Rick to snarl and attack his mouth anew, the hand at the older man’s jaw slipping to grasp his neck. The soft skin straining against the desperate panting for breath, gulping down air inbetween brutal biting clashes of lips and teeth and tongue. 

Rick pressed his erection unconsciously against Alan’s thigh, and this was enough to apparently pull Alan out of whatever haze he’d been under, and pushed Rick hard enough to send the anarchist crashing to the ground.

Rick found himself watching numbly as Alan pulled himself together and stalked off into the evening. Blood was still ringing in his ears when the lads finally emerged from the corner shop.

...Still. He rather felt that if he hadn’t won this encounter, it certainly came closer to a draw.


	3. And baby, One thing leads to another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have updated the tags to reflect some of the more difficult topics in this fic.   
> I never intended to go this serious when I started this stupid fic, but I try so hard to be true to...well if not the characters but what they represent. Obviously the hardest part of writing for this fandom is that the characters in their original incarnations are such hyper-cartoony-stereotypes that giving them any sort of meaningful pathos is hard. BUT. I do think it's interesting to explore them in this...while not entirely realistic, but less exaggerated context.
> 
> ...Also I full think Rick grows up hot but completely unaware or unable to comprehend it, fight me.

It’s 1987 and Rick is actually, for once, feeling good about himself. He’s sat in a pub in Brighton, surrounded by people that he knows for certain care about him. Together they make up one of the biggest advocate groups for Gay and Lesbian rights in the United Kingdom. Outside these doors, the street is lined with similar establishments, with open arms and acceptance. 

Well. Minus the usual gatekeeping and cattiness that comes part and parcel with any group of “enlightened” 20-somethings. But it’s a damn sight better than being alone. With unity comes strength. And even if this is a terrifying time to be alive, Rick feels like he’s finally found his place.

There’s a gentle but pointed elbow to his side and Alex gives him a pointed stare. Apparently he’d spaced out, the buzz of the one sip of cider he’d allowed himself to have making him miss the rather important topic the group was discussing. Alex raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow at him, gesturing across to Georgina. “She didn’t come all the way down from Hackney to have you ignore her Ricky.”

Georgina Pit has a proposal for their group, and can provide them with a centre in London to begin their outreach program there. Rick had been wary of her offer from the get go. London still has too many ghosts and missed calls, and there’s an air of fear. But they need to start somewhere.

The Hackney council member is scrutinizing Rick closely in a way that makes the 24 year old uncomfortable. “Take a ruddy picture or something! It’ll last longer!” He snaps.

“Sure.” She fumbles in her overnight bag and pulls out a bulky polaroid camera. Alex squeals excitedly and wraps an arm around Rick’s shoulder, ignoring the weak protests. “Come on Ricky! Give her something to take back to Hackney, show London what they’re missing!”

“Give over P.” Rick pushes the sniggering poser off him and turns back to Georgina. “Yes, Yes, whatever. You’re talking a pwetty big game here Pit. It SOUNDS great.” Rick scoffs. “But it’s a huge gamble. You haven’t said a word about how the community will feel about a bunch of us setting up and providing information and outweach-”

“Trust me, Mr Pratt, I have a vast network of resources that would be interested in bolstering support for you and the group.” Georgina placed the camera down, ignoring Alex’s soft whine of disappointment. “I’ll see to it that the funding is in place and you’re folded into the community center smoothly.” 

Sneering at this, Rick turned to see the reaction from the rest of the group, only to find that his fellows had looks of hopeful optimism on their faces. Even Alex, who’d long been on his side of playing their cards close to their chest in the current climate of hate, was pulling their best puppy dog expression. With a great sigh, Rick leaned back in his chair, folding his arms tightly over his chest. 

“I don’t like it. I think there’s too much left to chance. We should at the very least send someone up to get the feel of the community, see how tolewant the atmosphewe is.”

“Good idea Ricky!” Alex trilled. “And seeing as it is your great idea-”

“No.”

“Oh go on Rick.” Another member chimed in. “You’ve been to London before! You know your way about- plus you’re the only one who could possibly know what kind of thing we’re looking for there.” 

Rick pulled a long drag from his cigarette and scowled at the rest of the group. “I hate ALL of you.”

Alex planted a kiss on his cheek, which the anarchist angrily scrubbed off. “Good boy. Send us a postcard, alright?”

-

It’s still 1987, and Rick is sitting at a town meeting with Georgina. They aren’t in Hackney. Rick had still had reservations about the practicalities of moving his entire group from Brighton (and honestly had he been a few years younger and had one less stay in intensive care, one less heartbreak, and one less bus crash, he’d be unable to recognise himself in the man sitting calmly in a town hall meeting in 1987. Rick the Poet would never have cared about the people around him to the extent that he did. Only about how it would affect himself). 

But here he was. Georgina had dragged him to a town meeting in another constituency in another London Borough (he didn’t know which one. To say that he’d grown up a little was one thing, to claim he’d become hyper attuned to the world outside his immediate bubble was another) to compare and contrast the attitudes between a Labour run borough (Hackney) versus a Conservative one (Unknown Bourgh they were currently in).

“Georgina, this is a waste of our time.” Rick hissed as they slid into two waiting seats close to the exit. 

Georgina only rolled her eyes and gestured up to the stage, where some grey older gentleman was reading the minutes of the last meeting. “We don’t even know what they’re going to discuss yet! How can you be so blase about local political concerns? They told me you were a sociology student!”

“Well. Yes. I WAS. but this isn’t MY local concewns is it?” He snapped back. “I was QUITE happy back in Brighton, before you all tried to convince me moving back to the heart of evil was a good idea.” He kept back that he’d only just recently completed his degree. No-one in their circle of revolutionaries knew about the year off, the therapy and his eventual re-enrollment to complete what he’d started.

He played up his maladjustment- only this time he knew for sure what was an act and what was genuine. He was slowly building a new persona to hide behind. The best way to achieve change was clearly by playing up the things that allowed him to hide in plain sight. What set him apart from Alex and the others. Sitting in that town hall, he blended in far too well, his slight frame, pale smooth complexion, short brown hair artfully teased upwards. The top two buttons of a loose fitted black shirt left open. 

Rick the Poet was evolving into Rick the Activist. He hadn’t reached his final form yet, as evidenced by the (new) red buckled boots and the earring hooked through his right ear. But he was slowly becoming someone that 15 year old Rick could be proud of.

“That is precisely why we need people like you in London.” She sniped back. “How can anyone hope to make any sort of meaningful change if the capital doesn’t reflect the grand range of differences in our populace?”

Rick scoffed and shuffled down in his chair, waving his hand in the direction of the few other members of the public who’d bothered to turn up to this meeting. “Look, I’m just not convinced these...old people are ever going to be able to welcome anyone who isn’t exactly like them.”

The Hackney council member fixed him with a withering stare. “What precisely makes them better than us?”

“Look, Georgina, in about ten years, they’ll all be dead, Cliff willing. And then maybe with any luck their just as misogynistic, racist, homophobic, zenophobic kids’ll LET us live in the same postcode.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t try! We have to leave this world better off for those that’ll come after us.” 

Deadpanning, he answered her with a simple question. “Why did you want ME to come here? Out of all the collective, why did you single ME out for this little outreach program?”

There was a pause, and the stuffy room prattled on around them, going over budgets and other detritus that neither of the two progressives in the room cared to listen to. Their own conversation was going mostly ignored by the grey crowd around them.

“You know damn well why.”

“No, why don’t you spell it out for me, Georgina. Is it because of my degree? Is it because I can pass as one of the thousands of others out there? Why didn’t you ask Alex? They’re FAR more on board with your little project-”

“Because they wouldn’t accept Alex.” Georgina hissed. “I know that. You know that. I get harassed every single day for being the sole black woman on the council. Do you think I want to expose Alex to that? To have the community sling hate speech at them for not only being black but for being an OTHER? No. Rick.” She bent down and hissed more furiously. “You have more power for positive change simply by being who you are.”

Rick glared back at her, and kept his mouth shut throughout the rest of the meeting, stewing over what the older woman had said. 

He wasn’t the only one.

It’s 1987, and the right honourable, largest majority in the house of commons, MP for  Haltemprice has been in a meeting in one of the backrooms of Hammersmith Borough Council. Well one says meeting. More of a blackmailing.  Alan B’stard is having a fantastic year, being the youngest voted in backbencher ever and one of Thatcher’s most treasured tory-toy-boys.

He normally would have left out one of the side doors, but there’d been some exquisite little bit of totty manning the secretary’s desk at the front, and so Alan meandered through the building, tucking his manilla folder of material way inside an obscenely expensive leather briefcase. Passing by the open doors of the still on-going town meeting, his eyes ran over the dusty old crowd- stopping on a splash of colour.

A devastatingly attractive black woman sitting primly and taking notes even as the crowd around her seemed to meld and decay around her. And next to her-

...Well. There he was again. Alan felt his feet stop in the hallway outside the meeting, unable to take his eyes off that damn brat who seemed to resurface at the most random of times.

The boy looked...better. Certainly he’d cleaned himself up, thankfully, since the last time they met. He looked...urgh. Cool? Was that what the kids were saying these days? Alan felt himself smoothing his curls back from the front, worriedly feeling for that ever present threat of a receding hairline. The very fact he felt that momentary sting of worry made his blood boil at this boy. With his teased hair and all black clothing leaving just a sliver of neck and chest-

And suddenly it was four years ago, and he’s leaning into a furious kiss that’ll have his lips looking bruised and well fucked when he arrives home at his flat later that night. He’s standing in front of his mirror surveying the minor imperfections. He’s doing his best to focus on looking for burst blood vessels, and ignoring the scalding burn of another man’s erection on his thigh, the phantom weight of it sending shuddering signals of heat to his own cock--

Alan’s eyes train on the young man, and he slips into the back of the meeting room, straining to hear the snippets of the conversation that his one time vouyer and his companion are having.

The speaker calls for a fifteen minute break, and the greys move towards the refreshment table. Alan stays planted by the wall. He can’t say why exactly it’s important that he seeks the boy out this time. He suspects any close inspection of this want will only lead to a very dangerous path he isn’t prepared to consider.

“--I’m going out for a smoke--”

“You’re not going to make a run for it, are you?”

He laughs, and starts patting his trousers down for his lighter. “--don’t even know where we are to be honest with you--”

The woman laughs with him, and presses a lighter into his palm. “--utterly hopeless-”

Alan’s database of a mind makes a connection and realizes who the woman is- some mouthy council member in some labour borough- but he’s entirely too caught up in watching the boy move through the crowd and out the side door.

  
  


Rick exhales a lungful of smoke and leans against the only working lamp light outside the council building. Lazy summer moths are circling in the sickly orange artificial glow and he roughly pushes aside Georgina’s -arguably sound- proposition, and considers if he ought to look up the lads whilst he’s back in London. He knows Vyv is probably finishing up his residency now. He’s the only one he hasn’t seen from since he moved to Brighton. Neil found the seaside “calming”. Mike stopped by the pub with the cover of visiting him during his many business trips.

He’s written to Vyv a lot, but he also knows how busy the punk is. They call every other week. Maybe there’s time now to give him a ring? Rick sticks his hand in his back pocket for his ever present notebook, intending to look for Vyv’s number.

“I’m starting to suspect--” Rick freezes, his cigarette ashing with the sharp intake of smoke he takes at the shock of hearing THAT voice again. “--you’re a very ineffectual stalker.”

Had this been four years ago, Rick would be hacking up a lung, eyes watering with the smoke going down the wrong way. But now he simply lets out a long stream of smoke into the night air, and takes in the form of his one-time make out partner. He also takes a moment before rushing in to defend himself. (His therapist was very keen on him practicing that whole “think before you say anything.”)

“I could say the same thing, Minister.” Rick smiles but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Congratulations on the murder-OH. Sorry. I meant to say gaining the parliament seat.”

Alan minutely shakes his head, stepping closer to Rick, but staying outside the circle of lamp light haloing the younger man. “Of course you’ve heard the news. How does it feel? Having assaulted an MP?”

Rick scoffs and taps the ash of his cigarette on the lamp post. “You weren’t an MP then.”

“I could still have you arrested.”

“And risk having your reputation tainted by an illicit and illegal act with a homosexual? How’d that look for the youngest MP?” 

A rare scowl crosses Alan’s face and he has to hold himself back from launching himself at Rick. Where’s that awkward, snivelling youth who he’d kicked in the gutter? 

Grinning, Rick leans back against the lamp post. “Weird that you’d follow me out here. Whatever would Mrs B’stard say?”

With a snort of amusement, “Very little, I should think.” Like he gave a damn about what Sarah would say. It’d be fairly hypocritical of her anyway to accuse him of having designs of an intimate sort on the boy. 

..Wait, what?

“Why are you here, B’stard?” Rick finally says, after watching the confused look flit across Alan’s face with bemusement. “Shouldn’t you be off kicking the homeless? Or have you got some sort of rich man’s hunt scheduled for tomorrow where you and your Tory mates hunt the poor for sport?”

“That’s not til next week.”

“Pity.”

“You know,” Alan rocks on his heels and points with one well manicured finger at Rick’s form. “It looks like you’ve got your act together.”

“Mhm.” Rick’s therapist also taught him how to not overshare every little thought. There’s a distant part of his subconscious that’s preening at the compliment, trying very loudly to beat against the distain his morals have for the man in front of him. 

“So what is it you and the Hackney Council are doing here hm?” Alan rocks forward, leaning into the circle of light, casting shadows on the hollows of his face, his curls aglow under the lamp light.

Rick flicks the butt of his cigarette away and slowly blinks down at Alan. “We’re staging a hostile takeover, with the intent of dismantling the conservative party, one cobweb invested council at a time.” He deadpans. “Fuck off B’stard, I’m not telling you anything.”

“The very fact that you are here tells me you’re up to something.”

Something clicks and Rick frowns, slowly taking a step forwards, making Alan back away. “Again, Minister, I could say the same thing about you.” A smirk actually appears on the anarchists face, Every step forward, out of the light has the conservative MP flabbergasted at the gall this boy has. And he is a boy, a brat. The representation of everything Alan is against is stalking towards him with intent in his eyes. He should feel threatened.

Why isn’t he running?

Rick pauses on the very edge of the circle of lamplight, dappling high cheekbones with orange fluorescence, leaving his face an echo of the very intimidation Alan had been trying to project moments before. “Know what I think?”

No response. 

“I think that this isn’t about information this time.” The knowing smile Rick gives Alan is almost glimmering with malice in the shadows dancing across the young man’s face, with knowledge that Alan hasn’t willingly given up and there’s slick sensation down the politician’s spine, that he registers as anticipation.

Rick scoffs and turns on one red heel, slipping his hand back into his pocket for the lighter and his cigarettes, effectively dismissing a man who’s not used to not getting what he wants. “Fuck off B’stard.” 

And then fleetingly he’s 20 again. Curled up in a hospital bed, back facing the object of his first and only real heartbreak, listening to thick curdled snores issuing from the other bed behind the screen. He’s biting back a sob as he tentatively palms his cock under the thin sheet, trying to think of anyone, literally ANYONE else he’d want as desperately as he wants the boy behind the screen. His brain is floundering for scenarios to use to get off so he can finally get to sleep. And then he sees the man he’d kissed behind that corner shop what seems a million years ago but is only a few weeks at most. He gasps as the memory sends a hot shot through his nerves, biting his pillow to swallow his frantic pants for breath as he finally--

Alan grabs Rick’s arm firmly in 1987, all fury and pink spots of humiliation on his cheeks. Rick stumbles, short heels clacking on the pavement as he’s all but hauled around the corner of the council building, hidden behind a privacy wall meant for concealing bins.

“What the-Fmm!”

Rick finds himself slammed firmly against the wall, and Alan’s mouth slanted over his, mirroring where they were four years earlier. Only now Alan is the aggressor, and Rick finds himself burying his hand under the MP’s trenchcoat and pulling the body of the older man against his own, the other pulling at those soft delicious curls until Alan groans against him, allowing Rick to force his mouth open, deepening the mess they find themselves in.

Rick expects Alan to knee him in the groin and leave him painfully aroused and confused on the filthy ground once again. He fully expects this eventuality because it’s so rare that he gets anything he wants on any level, especially one as shamefully and morally repugnant as this.

But the minutes creep on, and he finds that that B’stard isn’t pulling back. He can’t imagine what’s going on in the other man’s head but he’s drunk on the heady and powerful feeling of another person’s hands on his body, the slide of thin lips and teeth scraping against his neck. The adolescent fantasy of stockinged legs wrapped around this man’s hips flashes briefly in his mind and he can’t help but grind his now quickly tightening hips against Alan’s. There’s a sharper huff of breath against his collar bones (when had his shirt been unbuttoned?), and this time Alan doesn’t run. 

Instead the older man’s teeth nip at Rick’s ear and gruffly “You’d better have protection when you fuck me, brat.”

There’s the slap of consciousness and his supposedly strong morals that comes from hearing B’stard’s voice. But so much more so the very real shock of hearing that B’stard wants to be fucked and not the other way around. This startling revelation lasts the hurried trip to the MP’s bentley, parked thankfully behind a row of hedges. Alan crowds Rick into the back seat, and with a growl of impatience, makes quick work of the flies of the younger man’s pants, only stopping when Rick grabs Alan’s slim wrists in a panic, forcing the MP to look up.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” Rick hisses. Alan looks starved, almost feral with hunger, and incredibly pissed at being stopped. Rick gulps back a sudden wash of fear, because everyone has heard the horror stories. And whilst yes, this is something he begrudgingly wants, the ticking anxiety of the state of the world is never far from his mind.

And it’s not as if Alan’s reputation is spotless, regardless of his (apparent) sexual preference.

To his credit Alan scoffs with understanding. “Do you really think I don’t get tested weekly?” Ripping his wrists away, he leans back in again, until Rick is crowded up against the car door, one leg either side of Alan’s waist as the MP drags his lips over Rick’s throat, chuckling softly as Rick needily presses his cock upwards against Alan’s searching hand. “God, you’re so responsive, like a girl.”

The word “Girl” causes a reaction that Alan had anticipated. An indignant noise of disagreement to be sure, but there’s also a very real thrust upwards. Alan’s anticipation is of course based on prejudice and hateful stereotypes.

For Rick it’s a constant reminder of that same heartbreak that fueled those hopeless late night wanks in the hospital.

Rick’s head presses back against the car door window, the soft crunch of his hair gel against the glass leaving a smear that Alan will have to address later. He tries not to look down, but when he does he sees the hateful, self satisfied smirk of Alan around his cock, blonde curls bobbing with every movement. Fisting his hand against the backseat headrest, Rick glares down at the MP, even as his face gets pinker with every laboured breath. 

“You-You’re- GAH-” There’s a gurgled hum of amusement as Rick loses his train of thought as Alan takes him in as deeply as possible. “TOO g-good at that f-f-for someone who’s supposed to be into girls.”

Alan merely rolls his eyes as he comes off of one long, drawn out suck (Rick groaning, legs involuntarily curling towards his torso even as Alan braces himself against him) with a pop. Rick watches with shaking breaths as the older man shifts and shimmies against the other car door, shrugging out of his trenchcoat and pushing his trousers down and off. He’s surprised that B’stard doesn’t accompany this with some pithy comment, but as soon as Alan is left in just his button down vest and shirt, pulling his tie loose, he’s suddenly thankful for the silence. Especially when Alan leans over the passenger side seat and roots around in his glove box for a moment, the lack of propriety leaving the anarchist oddly bashful. 

All too soon he’s physically connected to the current object of hatred as closely as possible, his mouth open and gasping against Alan’s neck as the older man rides him with skill he himself would be envious of- if wanting anything more than this moment was something he could stomach. The only thing bouncing around his head right now is just how good this is, how tight and perfect the heat around his cock is, how the tie around Alan’s neck makes for a good leash to control how and when the older man’s attention is focused on him. 

How fucking fantastic the rush of pleasure and relief is that comes with having what he’s fantasied about for the last nine years of his life. 

It’s not until he’s tripping out of the bently and back towards the council building, that the icy realisation of what he’s done hits. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t see the curl of cigar smoke issuing from the Bently’s back window. The blank stare of Alan B’stard boring into the plush leather interior. 

He does hear, as he slumps against the brick wall he’d been pressed up against not an hour earlier, the sound of tires on loose gravel as the bentley pulls away. Cradling his head in his hands Rick feels the anxiety of what could happen next, darkness edging at the corners of his vision. He mutely pats himself down, looking for the lighter that Georgina had given him (again, the obliviousness of even considering if she’s still around here, if there’s a chance she left him alone in this strange London borough doesn’t even register), finding it gone and blearily looking around for it--

B’stard’s briefcase.

\--

It’s 1987 and Vyvyan Bastard is just getting in after a day shift at St Grouchos’ Children’s Hospital. Kicking off his heavy black boots, drops his coat, keys and rucksack in the hall and slouches into the tiny kitchen of his flat, swinging a sweating bag of kebab and chips he’d picked up on the way back. There’s nothing on his mind. His mind is blissfully clear of anything, leaving nothing but a buzz of slight migraine from how packed the tube was on the way home.

He doesn’t bother with a plate, ripping through the knot on the plastic bag with his teeth (and getting a bit of styrofoam in the progress) when there’s a ring from the intercom. Growling with displeasure (and spitting the mess of paper and plastic out) he stomps over to the intercom and slams the call button. 

Call On. “PISS OFF.” Call off.

Usually people leave him alone after this. He turns away from the wall only to have the ringer go off again. He slams the button again. 

Call On. “I SAID PISS OFF--” before he can leave the call button however a familiar shrill voice snaps-

“OH THAT’S CHARMING! LET ME IN YOU SPAZZY!”

Blinking tiredly, Vyvyan pauses before responding, a hint of a smirk on his face.

“NO. Why’d I let a smelly bastard like you in?”

There’s a pause on the other end, but there’s a worrying quaver in the voice that responds.

“‘Cuz I’ve got no where else to go Vyv.”

There’s no hesitance in how quick the door buzzes, unclicks and let’s Rick in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave Rick friends. ;u; Alex is based on Lanah P's character in The Comic Strip Presents "Eat the Rich" because they're awesome and I SO think they'd be anarchist buddies with Rick.  
> Georgina Pitt appears in another of my fics because honestly I love her.   
> Let me know what you think!


	4. Epilogue: I know why you've been lying to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that THIS is the first fic I've finished. This, which was requested as a drabble on tumblr, gets finished whilst Three Times Dead languishes in my drive...-grumble grumble-
> 
> ...Anyway. I have had a blast writing this. x

_ “It's getting rough, off the cuff I've got to say enough's enough, _

**_Bigger the harder he falls!_ **

_ But when the wrong antidote is like a bulge on the throat- _

_ You run for cover in the heat , so why don't they; _

**Do what they say, say what they mean**

**One thing leads to another.** _ ” _

It’s 2006 and Rick is walking down Oxford Street in London with his eldest son, James. It’s the day before James’ second term at University, and soppy bastard that he is, Rick had declared that they ought to get the boy properly kitted out before he disappeared for an entire term. He isn’t making it a secret that he’s absolutely going to miss his darling little boy, if the big crocodile tears that kept threatening to roll down his cheeks are anything to go by.

“Dad please.” James’ almost monotone voice had dragged out the first word, days earlier when he’d reminded his parents about needing a lift to the station. “I’ll come home at Christmas-”

“I should ruddy well hope so young man!” The shrill response came. Rick is standing in the living room, hands on his hips. Turning to his partner, he gestures pointedly to their son. “Well?!”

“Well what?” Comes the dry response from behind the newspaper he isn’t reading, but using as a shield from this conversation.

“Well! Aren’t you going to tell him he HAS to come home at Christmas?”

“He just said he would.” Comes the grunt.

“HE HASN’T PROMISED!”

“Don’t remember us going home at christmas much.”

Rick splutters, “That was a different time! And anyway your Mum hated you!”

Thick glasses and a bald head peer over the top of the paper. “And your Mum and Dad loved you. Don’t you think it’s time to cut the cord?”

The dramatic “GASP”, flounce and storming upstairs to his study isn’t remarked upon by Vyvyan, who merely sighs and folds the paper now it’s no longer needed. James had sunken into an armchair and started fiddling with his phone. Vyvyan stands up and thwacks his son around the head with the newspaper. 

“What was that for?!”

“Go shopping with your Dad. You know how emotional he gets.”

“...Yes Dad.”

It’s 2006 and Rick is absently peering up at a television displaying a digital news channel as his son browses the speaker systems at a very high end electronics store on Oxford street. Vyvyan is going to blow a fuse over how much Rick is going to spend on something that will, more than likely, end up getting broken or stolen at Jame’s university share house- but he’s a soft touch when it comes to spoiling his kids.

He’s not really watching the screen, or taking any of it in. For the most part he’s letting James have the illusion of privacy as he shops. Occasionally a scrolling headline will make him scoff but he’s mostly letting it roll off his back. These days he has enough of world events when it comes to his day job, and this is family time.

Rick is about to turn away to ask if James is ready to go when a newscaster throws to an enthusiastic live reporter outside Downing Street. 

“-Thanks Jim!” There’s a commotion behind her, flashing of cameras and crowds of people trying to catch a glimpse of someone. “We are live outside Number 10, where Alan B’stard has officially defected from the Conservative party to Tony Blair’s Labour.” The mob of people behind her begin to be pushed back by police officers, revealing the smiling faces of B’stard and his wife Sarah. The reporter continues breathlessly. “Mr B’stard was the youngest politician ever to be elected to parliament and was one of Margaret Thatcher’s golden boys. He has since served as Secretary of State to the European Union, and has been instrumental, we’re now learning, to Tony Blair’s rise to power.” 

The report now has Rick’s full attention. Of course, he’d been aware of all of this- his livelihood depended on keeping abreast of the political climate. But he was also pretty sure that Alan was supposed to be dead. He’d been so happy when he’d learned of the assassination (the papers had been full of mournful articles about him- afterall, he was charming, good-looking and any story with his name on it sold like hotcakes). Rick had been so happy that he’d fallen down the stairs and broken his arm over it- Vyvyan never let him live it down.

The reporter was now talking to B’stard. It was startling to see how much he’d changed in the time he’d last been in the public eye. His hair cropped short and slate grey (Rick scoffed over how much of that fit the New Labour shtick- utilitarian in effect but it still must have cost more than a single mother in the capital earnt in a month.) There were creases lining the politician’s eyes and mouth now, and he’d clearly rounded out around the middle. A callous little part of Rick rejoiced in this. He was no longer a golden boy. Alan B’stard now looked the part of all the older conservatives he’d swindled and robbed as a young man.

That night, Rick picked up the phone.

“I take it you saw the news, Norma?”

“Of course I did.” Came the tired reply. “B’stard never went away you realise? He’s just been biding his time. Didn’t you recognise the blatantly Alan-flavoured tactics Blair favours?”

Tapping the desk with a pen beside his open notebook “Norma, he can’t keep getting away with this-”

“Take a good look around at your life right now, Rick.” Norma interrupted. “Nice house, lovely kids, gorgeous partner-”

“Watch it-”

“You make a move towards B’stard and you’ll be toast. Didn’t your eldest just start university?” 

She was right of course.

“Rick my boy, the best revenge is life well lived.”

“...”

“...But if you had something.” She continued after a long pause. “Something we could use against him...maybe I could put something in motion.” She scoffed. “He deserves it after what he did to me...to all of us.”

Eyeing a storage box containing a dusty old briefcase, Rick smirked.

“I think I do have...something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes it's a vague ending, but Alan's return to politics was fairly shortlived...;n;
> 
> Thank you again to [scumbaganarchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumbaganarchy/pseuds/scumbaganarchy) for requesting this and I hope it lived up to your expectations.
> 
> The song used in this fic was "One Thing Leads to Another" By the Fixx which I would never have been able to finish this without.


End file.
